Kisses
by BlueMoonOnTheRise
Summary: Various pairings, although probably a large proportion of them slash. Nothing indiscriminate, or too serious, more an experiment. Series of oneshots, any requests welcome.
1. Experimenting

**Apparently it's national kissing day. Here is my tribute to that fact.**

Sherlock narrows his eyes, squinting across the flat at one John Watson. He's reading the paper, but it's clearly nothing exciting – there's a harsh frown creasing his forehead as his eyes dart back and forth over the little black letters. He seems to give up, setting the paper down, sighing, and leaning back into the chair. He doesn't notice Sherlock's stare, which the detective sees as particularly unobservant: it wasn't like he was trying to hide the fact.

He continues to watch the doctor for about a minute longer, before returning to his experiment. People were so enclosed in their own little worlds that they never for a second bothered to really look.

It's approximately 28 minutes later that John joins him in the kitchen, yawning and making his way over to the kettle.

"Coffee please, John," Sherlock requests, not bothering to look up from his experiment. So far, it's been extremely informative: he's discovered the effect of several different acids on several different tissues. After that last case, he's inclined to wish that he'd experimented similarly beforehand. It's unlikely that a similar case will crop up again in quick succession, but he is not willing to be unprepared twice. He'd had to make do with estimates, which had thankfully been right. Nonetheless, he is uncomfortable with the uncertain.

His eyes locked on the fingernails in front of him – cataloguing the way in which they dissolve, and the remnants left behind – he hears John muttering to himself, something about not actually offering him anything. It was clear he was about to, why wait for him to actually form the words?

Yes, John – manners. Dull.

By the time the nails in front of him reach a stable state, John has finished preparing the beverages, and is holding Sherlock's coffee out to him, leaning against the counter in a manner that suggested he was going to stay there. His eyes keep darting to the experiment; his mouth twitching slightly – as if he wanted to ask what Sherlock was doing, but was unsure if he wanted to know.

"I'm observing the effect of different acids on various body parts," Sherlock tells him, his eyes flicking lazily to the little dish beside them.

"Oh – right. Good."

John takes a small sip of his tea; his eyes fixed somewhere above Sherlock's left shoulder. The detective follows his gaze, wondering why. Avoiding eye contact was usually an indication of awkwardness between people, but this was not something Sherlock felt they had ever encountered.

"Everything alright?" Sherlock asks, already getting a hunch from John's expression, but deciding to follow social convention for once.

He regrets the ridiculous decision almost immediately. John's answer (while written all over his face) is voiced painstakingly slowly. The doctor considers the question for about a minute before deciding to divulge his problem. Sherlock wishes he'd just announced it to him straight off.

"Sarah's going abroad for a few years."

Excellent. He'd suspected some kind of extended leave on her part: John seemed upset, but not enough so for it to be a break up in the usual sense. She was going away; but presumably at this point they hoped to be able to negotiate some kind of long-distance relationship. Pointless. Jealousy always got in the way; that and not seeing your partner for months on end. He voiced some of this to his flatmate, who did not seem to find the notion comforting.

Sighing, Sherlock recognises a change in tactics was probably needed.

He watches John for a few more seconds. He was down, but not distraught, calmly sipping his tea, and seemingly lost in thought.

In two strides, Sherlock is standing in front of him, which at least manages to pry John's eyes from the opposite wall, at which he had been staring for the last five minutes. His eyes search Sherlock's face, slightly alarmed. He's probably standing a bit close, he realises, and shuffles back a bit.

A curiosity begins to gnaw at Sherlock's mind: he looks at John, looks away again, looks back. It's nothing indiscriminate, just a thirst for knowledge, a desire to know his flatmate's reaction, to see what he can deduce from it. Not unlike the fingernail experiment, or indeed any experiment he had ever done.

He hesitates for a second, something unusual for him, and he catalogues it for future reference. Then, his usual confidence returns, and he closes the gap between them, touching his lips to John's.

He surprises himself by how pleasant he finds the experience, and even though he knows lips to be a hundred times more sensitive than fingertips, it is surprisingly nice to feel John's lips brush against his own.

He catalogues several things. Firstly, John's lips are dry – but not unpleasantly so – from the cold weather, and chewing them occasionally when nervous. Secondly, he doesn't pull away as Sherlock half expected, suggesting the action not to be unacceptable to him. Thirdly, Sherlock is rarely at so close quarters with him: John smells of tea, faintly of disinfectant from the clinic, and the musty smell of clothes stored forgotten for long periods of time. It's nice.

Sherlock discovers that he's closed his eyes. He doesn't remember doing so, but has no inclination to open them, he is intrigued to find. Also, he notices that one of his hands has crawled, unbidden, onto his flatmate: sliding around the side of his neck slowly until his fingers curl around the back of it, and he can feel strands of hair tickling the tips. Furthermore, he observes that John's hand is, very tentatively, creeping up his arm towards his shoulder.

The kiss lasts maybe half a minute, until the pair stumble apart a little awkwardly, shooting glances at each other and smiling sheepishly.

Sherlock swallows, and looks at his flatmate.

"That was…interesting," he manages. He clears his throat, presses his lips together and inhales. "I suppose I was correct in assuming it to be a reasonable way to cheer people up."

John just shakes his head at him, chuckling a little, and returning to his cup of tea. His cheeks are tinged pink.

"Idiot," he says.

**I was considering turning this into a series: kind of lots of different oneshots of 'Sherlock' characters kissing, similar to this one…if anyone thinks that is a good idea, then requests for pairings/situations would be very welcome. Just an idea. If no one's interested, I'll leave it like this. **

**Regardless of your view on the series idea, feedback of any kind is also very much appreciated.**


	2. Ammunition

**From GwenCooper456's suggestion. Donovan/Anderson, when they're not being cruel to Sherlock. Hope you like! **

Sally Donovan's office is very tidy: everything organised meticulously. Her desk does not mirror the haphazard mess that characterises many of her colleagues work spaces. The only clutter on it is carefully stacked and ordered. There's a single pile of files on the left hand side, with coloured tags sticking out of them, labelled in a loopy scrawl. Apart from them, there's her computer on the opposite side, and a small orange pot of assorted pens. There's a small window too, letting shafts of early morning sunlight illuminate the desk, pooling across the cardboard outer of the files.

The one thing ruining the perfection of the room is the man perched on top of the table, causing the files to hang slightly off the edge. He's of average build, and his dark hair catches the sun shining through the window, so it looks almost auburn in places. His feet rest on the second chair that is usually tucked under the table, and he is talking to the occupant of the office. She has her hand resting on his knee.

As they speak, Sally moves her hand from his knee and he slides off the desk and straightens up, apparently making to leave. Her eyes flick upwards to look at him, and she shakes her dark hair out of her face.

"See ya later," she says, a little smile twisting her features.

"Of course," he tells her, his smile matching hers. "I look forward to it."

They share a look, their smiles widening until they look away and she stands up, placing a hand on his shoulder to coax him out of the door.

"Go on, then."

He raises his eyebrows at her apparent eagerness to be rid of him, stepping a little closer with a little sceptical expression. Smug bastard.

"Sure?"

He leans in for a quick peck, as he likes to do. It's not so much Sally minds, it's more that people know he has a wife, and it doesn't exactly make her look good to let him.

"Go!" She tells him, giving him a shove: still more playful than forceful, which only makes his grin intensify. He would be the death of her, she muses, as she lets him kiss her again.

That second kiss ended up a little more inappropriate: more tongues and wandering hands than were probably suitable for nine o' clock in the morning, especially at work.

Most people's offices have flaws. Some have no heating, leaving the occupant wearing six coats whenever winter comes around. Some have no blinds, meaning the resident of said office ends up unable to see for several hours of the day. Some have wobbly desks, wobbly chairs, things for the boss to trip over when they come for a check up.

Sally Donovan's office has none of these flaws.

However, right now, the flaw in her office is that it has a door. A newly opened one.

She lets go of Anderson as if burned, curses her own weak will, and turns in trepidation towards the figure framed in the doorway. This relationship was never meant to be in the public domain. Unfortunately, it had been for a good long time.

The man standing in her doorway is tall and thin, is sporting that ridiculous over-dramatic coat and has a pair of incredibly pale eyes. A pair of incredibly pale eyes that are currently flicking between her and Anderson, glittering with something resembling amusement, or possibly malice. The corner of his mouth was certainly twitching.

"Sally," he says, flashing a faux smile at her, that amusement still glinting infuriatingly in his eyes. "I couldn't borrow the files on Danny Richards' murder, could I? Lestrade told me you'd have them."

His voice is carefully polite, but as he speaks, his eyes are fixed on Anderson. The amusement intensifies into something bordering on hilarity, though carefully controlled. Sally can feel her cheeks warming, and is well aware that it will not help the situation.

She's inclined to say something cutting to him, but the shock has not quite worn off, and even 'Freak' won't come out. Instead, she finds the file as fast as possible, and shoves it into his hand. He nods in acknowledgement, and Sally shares a quick glance with Anderson. He looks as horrified as Sally feels.

"I'll leave you to the – investigation," Sherlock sneers, and Sally is sure that neither she nor Anderson missed the double meaning. The latter almost runs from her office as soon as Sherlock leaves, leaving her to wallow in the prospect of renewed suggestive remarks from the detective regarding her and her colleague.

The last thing Sherlock Holmes had needed was more ammunition.

**Again, reviews/requests very welcome. Working on the suggestions already...uh, suggested.**


	3. Unbeatable

**Sherlock/Anderson: as suggested by Shaindy. Hope you like, although I swear these are getting progressively shorter.**

"You _can't_ break into my house!"

Sherlock glares at the Detective Inspector, his eyes flashing dangerously. Lestrade just leans back into the armchair, a lopsided grin crawling onto his features. Sherlock grinds his teeth, his hands almost balling into fists, clutching his head as he spins around.

"And, if you're going to break in under the pretence of a 'drugs bust', then for the last time, _stop bringing Anderson_."

Sherlock's eyes settle on the man leaning in his kitchen doorway, smirking.

"Just being in the same room as him limits my ability to think."

Anderson's smirk widens, he leans more comfortably into the doorway, and rolls his eyes. Even that simple movement is annoying: it's far too presumptuous an action for a person of so low an intellect. Sherlock voices some of this, drawing protests from the gathered policemen.

This only goes to verify the hypothesis that the police force were unable to see the facts right under their noses.

"I'm the stupid one?" Anderson asks, his voice sceptical, on the verge of a sneer. The tone makes Sherlock want to gauge his own eyes out, but he doesn't move. He would not give the man the satisfaction – when he was blatantly fishing for a reaction. Obvious. However, it appeared that Anderson was going to continue with his tedium, because he doesn't wait for an answer.

"I'm not the one who has to be told hundreds of times that I can't withhold evidence, and still can't get it through my thick head."

Sherlock sniffs, ignoring him. Childish. Also, it went without saying that he knew he shouldn't, under the law, withhold evidence. When it was beneficial to the solving of the crime, he felt himself morally obligated – well, no, but it was necessary.

"I'm also not the one who is apparently unable to see that they flirt shamelessly with their flatmate."

"Jealous?" Sherlock asks, pushing past Anderson with a cold glare and snatching an experiment from a policewoman who was searching through the fridge. He slams the door, treating her to a glare as well; although not one as vicious as those aimed at Anderson. "And no…you prefer to concentrate on remaining faithful to your wife."

The two men glare at each other: this time it's Sherlock wearing the smirk, and Anderson looking as though he'd been slapped in the face. Anderson steps forwards, his glare intensifying.

"Jealous?"

"That you can't control yourself? Not particularly."

Lestrade seemed, at that point, to have decided that enough was enough. He gets up out of the chair, and makes his way to the kitchen.

"C'mon Sherlock, Anderson. That's enough."

The two men ignore him.

"No, that you can't get anyone."

"Please," Sherlock sneers, stepping closer, so that they're nose to nose and glaring with intensity enough to set fire to something. "It's a matter of choice. You apparently don't seem to enjoy that."

"It's funny that you've never 'chosen' anyone."

"Wrong."

"Prove it, then."

They glare at each other for a few seconds longer. It's impossible to separate the levels of dislike in the two men's eyes. Lestrade seems to have given up his efforts of parting the fight, instead hovering uncertainly a few feet away from them. Eventually he sighs, and retreats back to the armchair. Sherlock catalogues the DI's movements, but never takes his eyes from Anderson's. That pathetic excuse for a forensic scientist was not ever going to win against him.

The consulting detective hesitates for a fraction of a second, although his mind is already set. He grits his teeth, gives one final malevolent glare, and kisses Anderson firmly on the mouth.

The other man squirms away from him, almost leaping across the flat in his haste to get away, scrubbing his mouth frantically with the back of his hand. His expression is priceless, although next to Anderson, it's Lestrade that looks the most shell shocked. Sherlock grins. As the police officers flee from the flat, presumably afraid of being treated similarly to Anderson if they misbehave, Sherlock fires off a quick text to John.

_I need you to pick up some mouthwash on your way home. Don't ask. SH._


	4. Sociopath

**Sherlock/Lestrade, as suggested by Shaindy. If I haven't done your suggestions yet it's not because I'm ignoring them, just trying to do these in something vaguely resembling order (as in order of suggestion). **

**Warnings for mild drugs use.**

**Anyway, I really like this one, so hope everyone enjoys too. Pre-John.**

Sherlock watched Lestrade across the DI's desk, his fingers pressed together beneath his chin. The action felt natural, it reflected his inner contemplation, and he saved it in his mind for future use. If the detective inpector's expression were anything to go by, it looked aesthetically impressive.

Other than the faint look of intimidation that Sherlock revelled in; the inspector simply looked tired and careworn.

Sherlock knew that such expressions were caused by him. The older man hated to see someone so brilliant, so full of potential; waste his life by allowing illicit substances to control him.

He noticed the occasionally slurred syllables that Sherlock didn't manage to catch in time, the stumbles, the mood swings. He noticed when Sherlock was bouncing off the walls and when he crashed and burned: recognised why insults flew unrestricted from the young man's mouth.

He knew, that if Sherlock Holmes was going down, he would take the whole of the metropolitan police down with him.

But Lestrade put up with him, hoping that with the work, the detective would learn not to rely on the drugs. Sherlock could see it in his eyes, his looks, his balled fists and gritted teeth; and his tolerance.

Naturally, he was wrong. Sherlock was not under the control of the drugs, but he could let that point go, for the present. Lestrade gave him work, and that was all that mattered.

Sherlock found himself experiencing a certain degree of gratitude to the man nonetheless. No matter their differences – and why it was unacceptable to borrow a sofa for the night, he would never know, even if he did break in after the DI was asleep – Lestrade had accepted him: the 20-something man with the mop of dark hair and the tracks in his arms, too skinny in his crumpled suits, his bloodshot eyes wide and staring. He'd let him onto that first crime scene and shot down everyone who'd protested. Sherlock had as yet failed to work out precisely why, and had as such accredited it to human kindness.

Humanity, he would never understand, but the quality of it in DI Lestrade he would be eternally grateful for.

He rubs his forearm absent-mindedly, his eyes searching those of the man in front of him. Lestrade has dark circles underneath his eyes, and as he meets Sherlock's gaze a crease of worry tears across his forehead.

There's no one else in the world who cares about Sherlock like Lestrade does. He doesn't understand why he does, but it's there. To Mycroft, he's the tearaway brother that he's obliged to love because of their blood bond: an obligation, not an instinct. Had Mycroft Sherlock's attitude, the detective is certain he would hold him in the same contempt that Sherlock holds him. To the dealers he meets in darkened alleys, away from the glare of CCTV, he's valuable only in the material sense; a source of income. He can think of no one else with whom he interacts regularly that holds him in any regard at all.

He can genuinely say that he doesn't care. Human feeling is meaningless. All he cares about is the work, the cold logic as he contemplates the latest puzzle, and the sting of the needle breaking the skin in the crook of his arm. The adrenaline, the rush.

Lestrade, he thinks, might be different. He'd like to care about Lestrade.

He looks away from him, comfortably resting his feet on the wood of the desk between them, and thinks. Lestrade does nothing, simply turning to his own work. He often lets Sherlock sit with him into the evening, and they often sit in silence, so it is not uncomfortable.

Sherlock Holmes is unaccustomed to caring: and he's not planning on starting now. Emotion is cumbersome, it gets in the way, brings out the worst in people. It can't be measured in any way, and in no way improves the activity of the brain. However, while he can't bring himself to actually care, he wonders if he should in some way acknowledge Lestrade's care, show the flailing seedling of gratitude that has grown from the kindness.

He doesn't have much to go on. The world he lives in is cold and dank; devoid of warmth or love. It comprises of exchanges and logic and thinking: he does not deal in the abstract, unless it concerns a case. Love and passion, he has long since observed, are powerful motivators. He's watched human attachment from afar, of course, yearning to understand, but the idea is incomprehensible, and he understands only what is necessary for his work. Reactions are more important than the origin of the attachment. He doesn't have room for unnecessary data.

Really, he decides, watching Lestrade over the desk, there was nothing else for it. It was a necessary acknowledgement.

Awkwardly, Sherlock leans across the desk, landing a clumsy kiss on the cheek of the detective inspector. The man looks up, and his expression is more shocked than pleased. Sherlock frowns.

"Is that not how humans show gratitude?" he asks loftily, sliding his shoes from the table.

"Usually people just say 'thank you'" Lestrade tells him gruffly, but a smile ghosts his lips, and Sherlock feels achieved. "But you're very welcome. Did you work out if Mr Hudson was involved? He seems to have disappeared off the face of the bloody planet."

Sherlock sniffs.

"He was executed in America, for similar crimes," Sherlock informs him, flicking dust off the sleeve of his shirt, and closing his eyes. "And I'm not skilled with gestures, inspector. Sociopath, I told you. Do your research."

**Reviews? Please? I am really quite pleased with this one, and I would love some feedback (positive or negative, I'm not fussy).**


	5. Influence

**Suggested by loads of people: reptarrocks42 & SarahTee & LIGHTNSHADOWS.**

**I wrote Mystrade (or Mestrade, I've seen it put both ways), God help me. This was too easy to do. I scare myself. This is actual proper slash!**

"Get in the car, Detective Inspector. I'd make some kind of threat, but I'm sure your situation is perfectly apparent to you."

Lestrade rolls his eyes, and glares at the receiver of the phone.

"One day, I'm going to take you up on that threat."

He listens carefully, certain he can hear the faintest of chuckles from the other end of the line. The voice that replies, on the contrary, is completely devoid of amusement.

"I wouldn't trifle with those with significantly more influence than yourself, Lestrade. Get in the car."

Lestrade considers the sleek black car, glinting in the orange light of the streetlights, the illuminated shop windows reflected in the perfectly polishing exterior. He looks back at the dull plastic of the phone.

"I'm just saying that this rigmarole is unnecessary every bloody time, Mycroft."

"I prefer not to operate in broad daylight, let us say."

With a final sigh, Lestrade slams down the phone, clambers out of the telephone box, and makes his way to the car, making sure to shoot reproving looks at every CCTV camera the man had pointed at him. This was getting old.

The ride is smooth and swift as always, Lestrade being deposited by Mycroft Holmes' assistant outside some derelict block of flats. Maybe the official had suffered some setback, because this was not this man's territory. He operated within classy polished offices, amongst iconic London architecture; in short, anywhere that oozed sophistication. Dropping Lestrade here, he might as well have announced his removal to live in a rubbish tip and wear a tracksuit.

Lestrade chuckles at the thought. It was faintly obscene.

Upon entering the flats, Lestrade understands why he was taken there. The interior is vastly different to the exterior: lavish furnishings permeate every corner, and it looks as if all the ground floor flats have been merged together to create a vast atrium. There are no cracks, no dry rot, no dampness, none of the things that Lestrade might have expected from the look of the place from outside. Even the door contrasts to the rest of the building: a wood and glass revolving masterpiece, ornately carved.

Well, the DI muses, this sure helps reinforce the idea that you shouldn't judge a book from its cover.

Looking around and taking in all the gold, and the plush scarlet furnishings, Lestrade is met by two rather bulky blokes, who he assumes are armed, although not obviously. Between them stands a bony woman. She's quite pretty, but her aesthetic appeal is tarnished somewhat by the ferociously stern expression on her face. Her green-grey eyes scan him up and down, and Lestrade is ashamed to admit to being a little intimidated. She's shorter than him still, and he looks down at her disapprovingly, and frowns. It makes him feel a little more powerful. He can feel the stares of cameras on all sides, and imagines Mycroft laughing at his insecurity. The thought does not please him, and he shifts from foot to foot, feeling uncomfortable.

"Can I just see him? Not that this doesn't seem like a waste of time, but I'm a busy man, and if I don't let Sherlock know about that decapitation case, I expect I'll be the next victim."

The woman makes no reaction, just maintains her cold stare.

"Righto. This is perfectly fine."

Lestrade sighs, his eyes glaring at the blank lens of the nearest surveillance camera. This stupid pantomime every time Mycroft wanted a word was getting ludicrous.

Eventually he is allowed into the gilded lift on his own, where he punches in the number for the top floor, and feels momentarily weightless as the machine swoops upwards. He is deposited within half a minute onto Mycroft's thick, dark carpet. The man himself stands by the window, examining the London night with interest. Lestrade walks over.

"You wanted to see me."

He's not sure whether it's a question, a statement...a complaint? He doesn't enormously care.

"Ah yes," Mycroft doesn't deign to turn from his muse, but Lestrade can hear the amused smile in his voice. "I did."

There's silence. Lestrade is rather unwilling to play up to the other man and ask why, so he doesn't, waiting for him to come out with it.

After what seems like an age, Mycroft Holmes turns from the window and moves gracefully across the room to face Lestrade, about a foot away from him. His hands are clasped in front on him, as if resting on his umbrella, although the article itself is absent. His mouth tilts upwards at the edges, his dark eyes glint slightly, although whether that's the same streetlight dancing in his hair, or the man's own expression, Lestrade can't tell. The effect, nonetheless, is disconcertingly mesmerising. However, the professional he is, Lestrade won't allow himself to be distracted, focussing on the point of this meeting.

"I assume this is about Sherlock," he says, sighing, and shifting his weight a little to better look at Mycroft. His expression is guarded.

"Naturally."

Lestrade tries not make some kind of frustrated face at Mycroft's blithe attitude. He fails completely. No straight answers, never, stupid car rides and telephone calls from telephone boxes. CCTV threats; and those intense looks that suggesting an incredibly dangerous man lived behind the irises.

"What, then?"

"Do you have to be so blunt in your phrasing?" Mycroft protests. A pause, and he sighs, apparently resigned to his fate. "I'd rather you didn't involve my brother in the 'decapitation' case, as you so eloquently put it."

"Why's that then?"

Lestrade's tone is unimpressed: he is tired of being patronised by Mycroft Holmes, time after time. Sherlock can be rude, but he at least is helpful. All his brother does is set boundaries.

"I don't want Sherlock coming into contact with the perpetrators of the crime, or Dr Watson. Am I clear?"

Lestrade exhales through his nose, not answering. He's tired of having his every move dictated by Mycroft, and tired of these visits increasing in frequency, and being treated like a schoolboy.

"They'll see it on the news anyhow."

"I beg to differ."

"You do know that as a member of the police force; it's backhand bribery such as this that we're meant to stop. The public need informing of stuff that affects their safety."

Mycroft smiles. It's loaded with threat.

"I can assure you that investigating me is a foolhardy venture, Inspector. It never ends well for those involved."

"Is that a threat?"

"Yes."

The simplicity of his answer stuns Lestrade, allowing him to appreciate properly the power of this man. He had nothing to hide. It was not even a risk, admitting to a Detective Inspector of the London Metropolitan Police that he had rather more control over the government and media than he should. He had armies of people working for him, who would do his bidding in an instant: legal or otherwise. He could make and break people.

That was how Lestrade finally worked it out. With all his power and influence, Mycroft didn't need these face-to-face meetings. He had legions of messengers that could quite easily come and press a gun to a lowly DI's head and force him to do his will. But he chose to talk to him.

"You don't need me here to tell me that."

"Excuse me?"

Maybe it's his imagination, but Lestrade thinks he sees Mycroft stumble in his impeccable demeanour. Just a wobble. Ha.

"I don't need to be here for you to threaten me. Why, then?"

Mycroft looks at him, and Lestrade knows he's got him. His eyes give him away. They're flailing, panicking almost. Always the eyes.

"You tell me."

"I don't know," Lestrade says, grinning. He looks up at Mycroft, amused.

"Yes you do. You just won't admit it to yourself."

Won't admit it? He'd love to know.

"I really don't," he assures the slightly taller man, still pleased that he's figured Mycroft out, at least in part.

"Take a guess then, _detective _inspector. It shouldn't be too challenging."

Lestrade looks at him, the familiar feeling of stupidity returning, the feeling that always settled in his stomach whenever he was around the Holmes' brothers. God, he hated it.

Something clicks. He looks up.

"Really?"

Why was that a good thing? Why wasn't he running screaming from the building?

"Do you know the level of teasing I have endured from my staff for your sake?"

"Don't you just assassinate people who mock you?"

They look at each other for a few moments, the truth sinking in a bit for both of them. Mycroft? Aloof, all-powerful Mycroft? Well, in fairness, he was the one who'd willingly come every time he called, and engaged in what was perhaps not quite the conversation of two men strictly bonded by business.

The corners of his mouth tug upwards in a smile, and even Mycroft's expression softens a bit.

He's not entirely sure how it happens, but one minute he and Mycroft are a foot apart and the next…well, they certainly aren't. In fact, the gap between them is negligible.

When Lestrade met Mycroft Holmes for the first time, he would have told anyone who had said he would end up like this that they were insane. Not only was the man overbearing and faintly intimidating, but…well he didn't swing that way. End of.

And yet – this – this was just _right_. The feel of Mycroft's lips on his, his hands almost hesitant in caressing his face. Mycroft's skin against his own fingertips.

They pull apart, and look at each other again.

"Well, I didn't expect that when you bullied me into the latest car this evening," Lestrade tells him, quite truthfully.

"No."

Mycroft kisses him again, more forcefully. He tastes of tea and breath-mints, and it's oddly intoxicating, and Lestrade suddenly finds that he cares very little what Sherlock will deduce tomorrow when he swans into Scotland Yard, demanding work. He allows his hands to stray into Mycroft's hair, feels the pair of them crash into the wall.

Maybe work wasn't so important. He could always do it in the morning.


	6. Perfection

**Short and sweet, right? More Sherlock and John this time. For reptarrocks42 & Caleuche. PURE fluff.**

It wasn't an unusual scene: John Watson sitting quite still in his armchair - and why that particular chair no longer looked right with any other occupant, Sherlock couldn't explain - with a mug of tea steaming between his palms, and a thoughtful smile on his face. He looked completely at peace, in those moments, his eyes unfocussed, staring into space, as wisps of steam snaked past his features. His expression was intangible.

So deep his reverie appeared to be, that Sherlock suspected if he crept past him to get at the fingers he'd been hiding, the doctor probably wouldn't notice; and he could experiment without disapproving glances. Therefore, he heaves himself off the sofa immediately: although with the tiniest stab of regret. He likes watching John like this. It's fascinating: he could never for a minute imagine the state of complete relaxation that his flatmate seems to so easily slip into.

So convinced is he of John's complete obliviousness of his actions, that it comes as somewhat of a shock to feel strong hands grab him by the lapels as he passes, and the owner of aforementioned hands immediately press a soft kiss to his mouth.

"Oh." Is all he can manage.


	7. Don't Shoot The Messenger

**This IS Anthea/Lestrade…but kind of not. You'll see :P As suggested by LIGHTNSHADOWS; I hope this suffices.**

Detective Inspector Lestrade exhales; the release of breath morphing half into a sigh as he contemplates his desk. Outside, the sky is growing dark, the glow of the London skyline flickering and mocking him through the little square window. He's well aware that he looks more than tired. He's barely slept all week, running around after Sherlock, who seems determined to lose him his job. Yes, he knows he means well, but the man is a handful, even with John around to help. Gleeful comments about horrific murders have not brightened Lestrade. He can't understand Sherlock's joy at such deaths, and trying to is draining him.

He turns away from the tangerine clouds drifting across his line of vision, focussing instead on the form he was supposed to be filling out. It's rather hard, he finds, to be enthusiastic. Nonetheless, he does pick up a pen with a long suffering sigh, despite the fact that there's no one around to hear it. Sherlock would have been scathing, Mycroft would have patronised, John would have sympathised. He'd take any of the three for a bit of relief…well, maybe not so much Sherlock. He'd only just managed to force him into a cab back to Baker Street. No doubt he went to the morgue instead. Jesus.

It's with numb habit that Lestrade manages to form the little black words that are required for the form. He's tempted to scrawl, but is well aware that illegible documents are unacceptable, and therefore it would be giving himself twice the work. He carries on working meticulously, imagining returning home and having a cup of tea, and watching mindless telly and going to bed. From where he's standing, it sounds like heaven.

Outside, the familiar drone of traffic is just discernable: pausing every once in a while as the traffic lights turn red. There's the occasional impatient blaring of horns, but other than that it's merely the background thrum of engines and chatter. Lestrade sighs again, and leans back in his seat, the pen still scribbling on the paper. The sheet still seems disproportionately empty.

Scotland Yard itself is unusually quiet. The vast majority of staff have gone home – there's just a few of the overly eager left, or those working on particularly important ventures, like himself. He doesn't bother looking up when he hears the stabbing of heels approaching his office. Donovan probably forgot something. It's just another disregarded, familiar background noise.

Therefore, it comes as a surprise to look up and see a woman framed in his own office doorway. He doesn't recognise her: dark curls and impeccable dress. There's something vaguely familiar about her, though, despite that. He pushes the thought away, and tries to look up at the new arrival brightly.

"Can I help you?"

The woman stares at him blankly for a few seconds. Lestrade notices as she does so, that she is clutching a Blackberry in her hands. On first impressions, he's not sure he likes her all that much – she's completely unreadable. She finally deigns to speak.

"No."

Lestrade frowns, but remains as professional as possible.

"Can I ask why you're here, then?"

Another few seconds of that disconcerting blank look, then:

"Mr Holmes requires me to pass on a message."

Lestrade raises his eyebrows in question. Not Sherlock, then, he'd have sent his poor flatmate. So, it had to be Mycroft.

"Alright."

He looks at her, and notices that she has become engrossed in her phone. He wonders for a few seconds if it would be rude to clear his throat, and decides not. She looks up, smiles, and returns her attention to the screen. Lestrade frowns, gets up, and moves around the desk to look at her.

"Are you alright?"

Again, she doesn't answer immediately.

"Oh yes."

The silence is somewhat awkward. He wishes she'd just give him this 'message' and allow him to work in peace.

"Could you tell me what he's got to say, then?" Lestrade prompts her.

This time, she does give him her full attention, transferring the phone into just a single hand, and smiling at him blankly. Like her boss, she seems to have developed a like for the dramatic. The pauses and mysterious looks are unnerving him.

"Mr Holmes gave me no verbal message."

"Right."

He's unable to keep the frustrated tone out of his response. He feels like he's being played with, and dislikes it. It's all very well for Mycroft to treat him as if he just left high school – and he won't pretend he likes _that_ – but to be patronised by his assistant as well is beginning to grate on his patience.

The woman merely gives another benign smile at his ire, and without warning swoops up and kisses him – quite fervently – on the mouth.

He stares at her.

"Can I ask what the hell..?" he starts.

She turns to leave without comment.

"Wait," he tells her. "The message?"

She ignores him, letting herself out of the office without a backward glance. He hears the clanking of the lift as she departs. Lestrade stands bemused for a minute, before disregarding the encounter, and returning to his work.

Then something clicks, and he is left to ponder what an extremely odd man Mycroft Holmes is.

He really must be busy.

**Kind of a follow on from the last Lestrade/Mycroft one…didn't want to spoil it at the top. Good? I can't quite believe I've now written two Mystrade fics, but the idea appeared and refused to go away. Reviews always appreciated.**


	8. Don't Panic!

**Anthea/Sherlock. LIGHTNSHADOWS suggestion. Enjoy!**

**(Also, apologies for the VERY long gap...especially as this has been typed for a large proportion of said gap!)**

Pretentious, ridiculous, unnecessary…every single one of these adjectives described his brother perfectly; and Sherlock was positive there were numerous more, had he the inclination to waste time on the man. He had not.

It wasn't so much that he minded the leather seats, and the over the top car; and in anyone else he might have been impressed at the telephone box call (a waste of tax-payer's money though, surely…hardly serving his precious public), but the simple reality was that it was entirely unnecessary. Mycroft could intimidate most with his person and domineering demeanour: he did not need cars and bodyguards and lavish furnishings to do so. Furthermore, he was entirely aware that Sherlock would not be intimidated, so the dramatics were childish – bordering on petulant boasting. Why he needed that irritating woman to mind him in the car, he was also unaware. She was so engrossed in her Blackberry, he doubted she'd notice if he attacked the driver or jumped out the window: the things she was presumably there to prevent. He was tempted to test his theory, but the prospect of a Mycroft-lecture tainted the appeal.

Of course, she was mainly an informant, firing off texts to Mycroft like bullets (and wouldn't he hate that – having to acknowledge that texting was by far the most efficient way of communication – he might bring it up when they met) and staring at him every once in a while, presumably her own brand of observing.

What he disliked so much about 'Anthea' was her transparency: and the fact that whilst transparent she was completely opaque. It was infuriating. The fact that she had been trained to hide everything was blindingly obvious – but she had been trained well. He could tell she was hiding, but what lay beneath the outer wall he was completely ignorant of. He caught occasional glimpses, but nothing of significance, nothing personal. Just stabs of annoyance or joy or frustration, quickly concealed. He had nothing.

As such, she was one of his least favourite people. He appreciated a challenge; but she was not a challenge. There was nothing to work with. It made car rides such as this earth-shatteringly dull. The prospect of seeing his brother made the whole experience one he would not care to repeat.

….

"John!" he called, clattering up the stairs to the flat, his coat flying out behind him, knocking over a pile of books as he rushed over to his flatmate. The man looked unnecessarily shaken when Sherlock forced him into a standing position, and looked at him, face stricken.

"What?"

Perhaps Sherlock had looked more worried than he intended, because there was real concern in John's voice, bordering on panic. His eyes flicked, unbidden, towards his coat. Sherlock detected that he expected a quick departure. Nice thought. Wrong, though.

Sherlock marches John into the kitchen, faces him, and puts both hands on his shoulders, looking directly at him, very seriously.

"She kissed me!"

"She?" John looks blank. Wasn't it obvious?

"Yes!" Sherlock confirms, trying to quell his agitation. "If you think about it logically, it doesn't mean anything: really it's just the same as any other touch…shaking hands, for example…I mean, really, is there much difference between touching a person with your hands than with your lips? I suppose the latter does require much closer facial proximity, and lips are more sensitive to touch. I don't know. Perhaps there's some experiment, to decipher the difference…"

"Sherlock, you're panicking," John observes. His voice is quite steady, but the twitching of his lips gives him away – amusement. Sherlock does not deign to answer, instead giving John a scathing look.

"Who's 'she' anyway?" John asks, ignoring Sherlock's hostility, and smiling warmly. "I could help."

"Anthea," Sherlock admits, holding his head up to mask his complete discomfort with this subject matter. It wasn't his area, and he was a little frightened. Only infinitesimally.

"She stopped working on her phone for that long?" John asks him incredulously, grinning. "She must like you."

Sherlock glares.

"Thankyou for the reassurance," he tells his flatmate waspishly, turning away. "I was concerned."

He hears John snicker behind him, and spins back around.

"I was accepting of Sarah!" he protests.

"You almost got her killed on our first date!" John corrects him. "And this situation is entirely different, unless you plan on dating Anthea."

"No!"

He is stricken by the idea, and adds a mumbled afterthought about being faithful to his work. Satisfied, it's John who turns away this time, and reaches for the kettle. Sherlock watches him hopefully, before collecting a vial from the cupboard, and settling himself at the kitchen table.

"Coffee, thankyou John."


End file.
